Recondite Whisper
by Caster
Summary: Between running the graveyard shift and solving cases, David literally had no time for love. [DavidxNick] [JacquixWarrick] [RyanxGreg] [WendyxCatherine]
1. Prologue

A/T: Wow! Here I am with another WIP (guaranteed to take less time to update!) and I'm _really_ excited about this one! A little back-story (_Oh no_, you say): when I was originally coming up with this concept (doesn't that sound professional? I hear professionals say that all the time on DVDs and things, only they get monetary profit. -pauses- Never mind. That's just depressing.) I wanted David out in the field. I thought, _Why not have him follow in Greg's footsteps and become a CSI? Nick could train him. That's perfect! _But then the other techs wouldn't have their glory, so I began playing with it until I realized that the other CSIs wouldn't be very important to this particular plot anyway. They'd have to be in the background like our favorite labrats usually are, and then I thought about how unfair that was, and then it all came together like a roast beef and swiss cheese sandwich! (Sorry. I'm hungry. )

Read on to find out what in the world I'm babbling about. But keep in mind: it's very much an AU. It's also an experiment. Let's see how it goes!

Disclaimer Haiku: It does not belong / To me. It is property / Of the CBS. Thank you. -bows- I'll be here all week.

Recondite Whisper  
Prologue

"Good Lord, David," Jacqui called, tossing her boss a patented Franco glare as she emerged from her ancient candy red Mustang, wearing a hastily donned pair of jeans, a teal sweater, and absolutely no cosmetics whatsoever. "My one night off the last two weeks and you call me in? That's cruel even for you."

"I can't control the crime rate, Jacq," David replied, hands in his pockets as he turned towards her, his stance one of casual boredom. "But I can control my employees. Dance, my minion, dance."

"You're lucky I even answered the page."

"You're lucky you still have a job."

"Like you could do this without me," she retorted, grabbing her field kit from the passenger seat before locking and closing the driver side door. "Should I ask where The Geek and Bobby are?"

"They're on their way. I called up Greg tonight, Ronnie's at home."

"And why doesn't Ron have to suffer with us?"

David gave a small sigh as the uniforms swarmed around the perimeter of Las Vegas's newest murder. "I figured he's at home with the wife and kids. We can handle it."

"Why, David Hodges," Jacqui said, taking a theatric step back, "Is that your heart I hear?"

Exhaustion didn't do David any favors, making sure he was victim to its clutches. Truth be told, he loved his job and his co-workers, but tiredness got the better of him as well. It was supposed to be everyone's night off; David figured he could spare them, considering the crime rate had been surprisingly low the last week or so. Of course, the night they had been waiting for –the one where they could sleep in, have a late breakfast, and catch up on their hobbies and friends- had been brutally interrupted. As the head of the graveyard shift, David had the obligation to be there; he didn't mind, considering he was practically married to his job, but he knew he had no choice but to call in everyone else when Brass described how widespread the scene was.

He silently resolved to give them Christmas off, regardless of the corpse count.

"You know I never call Ronnie in if I don't have to," David replied. "But if you let the word get around, you're fired."

"You really love having authority, don't you?"

"Only over you, Jacq. Threats of unemployment are the only way I can keep you in check."

The brunette considered this before nodding. It was no secret that the graveyard shift was a tight knit group, but she and David could practically read each other's minds. This gave her a power –and a closeness- to the other man that was difficult to achieve. That also gave her an edge, allowing her to get away with things that David would usually not allow from anyone else. She never _intended_ to step on anyone's toes, but her strong spirit often left the dayshift raising their eyebrows.

"True," she agreed, giving him a quirky smile. "So are you saying that if I get hitched and pop out a few kids, I can keep my rightful night off too?"

"That's the secret, Jacqui," David replied, grinning from his place in front of Sandstorm. Sandstorm was one of the biggest casinos in Las Vegas, attracting some of the richest and most famous from every part of the country and even the world. From the right angle –a newspaper clipping or travel show- it looked like a paradise. There were fountains, statues, and walls covered in layers of stone. The lobby flooring was marble and every detail of the building, inside and out, shined. It was as though everyone who entered magically lost their fingerprints; whenever someone touched something, it was instantly cleaned, giving the casino/hotel an air of enchantment.

But for those who knew the darker truths of the city, Sandstorm was just another casino. As a matter of fact, David and Jacqui could easily see past the rich façade and beyond the perfectly tidy grounds. They watched people with too much ill-gained money live the high life while poorly treated workers were lucky to get a meal. It was common knowledge that if a place seemed too good to be true, it probably was. Sandstorm and establishments like it were no exception, because odds state that not everyone can come out on top.

"Wanna give me the run down on the case or should I guess?" Jacqui asked, walking over to stand next to him. For a moment, David didn't speak. He knew that normal people were asleep by now, maybe out on the town and having a good time. Normal people weren't about to explain why Brass had greeted him with a _I can't wait 'til retirement_.

David turned to her, hands still in his pockets, the cold rolling in from the desert. He met her eyes for a moment and was thankful he had such a resilient worker and good friend on his team. If he had to deal with Ecklie's shift- God, what a nightmare. It was a graveyard cliché that all dayshift workers were jerks; David had met most of them and found them to be hard working and sociable, but he didn't see in them what he saw in his own group.

Of course, _some_ day shift workers were absolutely intolerable. Ecklie himself came to mind.

"A young girl, Asian, top floor," David informed, the words somehow tasting bitter on his tongue. "Snapped neck."

"God," Jacqui muttered, closing her eyes for a moment and massaging her temples with her fingertips. A headache was already forming. "It just makes you wonder what the hell people are thinking these days."

"No it doesn't, Jacq," David replied. "That's the problem. I should be horrified that someone did this to another human being, but I'm not. It's unnerving. I _expect_ it now."

"No one blames you. It's only natural to adjust to something if you see it enough, know what I mean? It's survival instinct. Adjust or die."

"Some little girl's broken neck shouldn't be run of the mill, Jacq."

"I know," she sighed, "But we can't change the fact that it is. What we _can_ change is whether the perp goes skipping through life scot-free or gets his ass in jail. I'm aiming for the latter."

"I'm aiming with you. If the _rest_ of my underlings were here, they'd be as inspired as we are," David replied, casting a pointed glance towards the parking lot; his and Jacqui's cars were taking up residence in a space while Greg, Archie, and Bobby's were not.

"I'm sure The Geek's in traffic, considering where he lives. Bobby's throwing on some God-awful plaid shirt as we speak, and Greg's still trying to get out of bed."

"Great. I have the Three Stooges and Wonder Woman doubling as investigators. Where did I go wrong?"

"Wonder Woman, huh? I don't know if I could pull off that little outfit she wears."

"You could always defeat villains while wearing those flannel pajamas you bum around the house in."

"Hey, they're comfy," she hissed, glancing around to make sure no one overheard his smart remark. "Victoria's Secret isn't an accurate portrayal of what women wear, and neither is Wonder Woman. I have to say I wouldn't mind the invisible jet, though."

"Where would you park it?"

"Stop being logical, David. It's an invisible jet. It's cool!"

"Hey, where's the rest of the geek squad?" came a familiar voice from the casino's doorway. David and Jacqui turned to see Jim Brass waiting for them to break out their fancy flashlights and goggles. David could appreciate a man like him; he had a quick sense of humor, a moral conscious, and a strong grip of reality. He knew what was what. In those few heinous months when Ecklie decided to split the shifts, David had seen less of him and sometimes had to work with Vartan. And he liked Vartan (he really did, because the man could kick some ass) but Vartan just didn't look as dignified when bringing in a cat-suit wearing man named "Sexy." Brass, on the other hand, made it look like a breeze. David supposed it all boiled down to experience.

"One's stuck in gridlock, one's offending us with his clothes, and one's wondering whether his job is worth getting out of bed for," Jacqui called in response. Jim gave a rare bark of laughter before nodding and motioning for them to follow. David sighed; he _hated_ casinos. Besides the fact his best A/V tech had a gambling addiction, David despised the thought of all that filthy money. People killed for pieces of paper and coins. How absurd was that?

"We got the scene clear," Brass informed as the two Level 3 CSIs approached. "It's just waiting for you guys."

"Joy," David muttered. "Is the management having a cow?"

The expression Brass wore told David everything he needed to know, but he listened to the detective's reply anyway. "As usual. No one saw anything, no one suspected anything, and they'll give us the security tapes when we give them a warrant. Standard."

"So you're saying everyone you talked to-?" David began, a familiar wave of irritation beginning to gnaw in his stomach as they boarded the waiting elevator, various sections of the lobby now peppered with law enforcement. Why did people protect scumbags? Was the thought of a young girl's snapped neck not enough to make them sick? It was so frustrating to deal with people who worried more about their pocket book than their neighbors.

"As far as they're concerned, the kid and the man who checked in with her were just your average overnighters," Brass responded. "You know how it is."

"Are you kidding me?" Jacqui asked, dark eyebrows nearly touching her hairline. She knew "how it was," of course, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. "A top room here costs an arm and a leg! No average Joe can afford to pay that. Hell, I bet they'd charge me to use the lobby bathroom."

"Whoever brought the vic in was a high roller, there's no doubt about that," Brass replied. "But high rollers are what keep Vegas going. Places like Sandstorm aren't going to blink when some guy plunks down a grand for room and board."

"Fabulous," she muttered. "Just another night in Vegas."

The doors dinged open and the trio stepped out, met with the glances of various county personnel and a small number of curious bystanders. David wasn't surprised by the lack of visitors who actually slept; it _was_ Vegas, after all, and most were out losing their life savings to the roll of dice or a stack of cards.

"Room twenty twenty-four," Brass announced. "Have fun."

"We'll send you a postcard," David retorted, returning Brass's grim smile. It was either crack a joke or go insane, and David didn't feel comfortable letting maniacs run his shift.

The moment Jacqui and David entered the room, they stopped and shared a look: there wasn't an exact _term_ to describe the room, but they were able to express their sentiment without a dictionary. The room was almost obnoxious, reeking of privilege and, more recently, death. The furniture was made of real wood, the carpet was lush, and the appliances were state of the art. Like the lobby, everything shined beneath track lighting while the bathroom and kitchen floor was made of marble. There was a large window overlooking the entire city, a big screen TV complete with a DVD player, and a California Queen sized bed.

It was the bed that was the worst.

"Oh no," Jacqui whispered, freezing for a moment as she gazed at the rumpled sheets, jumbled pillows, and the small girl who lay staring up at the ceiling with open, flat eyes. "No no no. Look at her, David."

Jacqui's voice was so low that Super Dave didn't hear them at first. No matter how long they worked the job, no matter how many dead bodies they saw, it would always stir something inside of them, make them wish that they worked a nine to five in a dead end office somewhere. David had the sinking feeling that it hurt Jacqui more than it hurt him when they saw such a tiny figure robbed of their breath. David couldn't help it. He had seen it all, worked every type of case imaginable, and this just didn't _surprise_ him anymore.

He felt inhuman and detached. It was the worst thing to feel when you weren't feeling anything at all.

"Hey Super Dave," Jacqui greeted, approaching the coroner with a nod of her head. Her movements were jerky and David could see that she was just trying to keep it together. "I see you beat us to the scene again. How many times has that been this week?"

"Three," he replied, glancing up to give her one of his soft smiles. "You owe me breakfast."

"How can you keep winning this?"

"It's a gift. Besides, you guys are far more popular than I am. I usually smell like a corpse and look like one too, so I get past security a lot faster."

"I'll keep that tip in mind. What have you found on the body so far?"

"No apparent trace, if that's what you're asking. The body's warm and stiff, so I'd ballpark TOD from three to six hours."

"A three hour gap of possibilities," Jacqui muttered. Dave sent her an apologetic look through his glasses.

"The only one who can pinpoint time of death is God," he informed. "But He isn't working in the coroner's lab, so you've got me and I'm telling you three to six hours."

"I know, I know," she amended. "It isn't you. Sorry."

Dave's eyes widened as he turned towards David. "Did Jacqui just apologize to me?"

David, similarly stunned, nodded. "Unless my hearing's going, I think she just said 'sorry.' Is the apocalypse coming?"

"Hardy har, boys," she groused, shooting both men another glare. "It's nice to know the lone female on the team is the butt of your little jokes. Isn't that sexism, David? Can't I sue?"

"It's not technically sexism," he easily replied. "Besides, we can just deny we ever said it."

"I need new friends," she sighed, turning back towards the coroner. "So three to six hours, snapped neck, no visible trace. The ball's certainly rolling tonight, gentlemen."

"I'll know more after the autopsy."

"You always say that."

"And _you_ always say that after I say that," Dave pointed out. "It's a custom. You know, an acknowledged repetition is comforting if you think about it. Can I take the body?"

"In a few," Jacqui replied, opening her case and digging out her camera. "We'll need some photos for the album and a sketch for the gallery."

"We're working a scene, not running an art museum," David replied, Jacqui pointedly ignoring his words. She raised the camera's viewfinder to her eye and began snapping pictures. She went from left to right, making sure each photo overlapped to make a panorama. She then began taking close-ups, Dave helpfully getting out of her way.

David watched, content with her work. In all honesty, he never had to worry about the quality of anything she did: it was always done right the first time, every time. She took pride in her job, making sure she could live up to her male counterparts. David, of course, had never belittled her. Even when they worked their first scene together (both as Level Twos) he had given her a wide birth. They were equally as smart, equally as talented, and the only reason he had made CSI 3 first was because of a little luck.

"Are you going to start sketching or what?" Jacqui asked, turning to face him. David made a face.

"I was hoping Archie would get here soon. He's more artistically inclined."

"Nice excuse, Lazy Pants. The Geek draws stick figures on napkins. That's as far as his creative talent takes him."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a nag, Jacq?" he asked, setting down his own kit and hoping he had a spare pen or pencil. She scoffed.

"All the time. Do you honestly think I'm going to listen?"

"Given past experiences, I doubt it."

"You'd _better_ doubt it. I'd have to give you an example otherwise."

With a grin in her direction, David located a BiC pen (probably stolen from Doctor Rambar) and his yellow legal pad.

They continued in comfortable silence, punctuating the ticking minutes with some banter or conversation with their waiting coroner. Jacqui continued on with her photographic duties while David surrendered himself to his fate and began sketching.

Despite the glamour that television shows and the media put on their jobs, David would be the first to admit that being a CSI was drudgework. The hours were long, the labor tedious, and the end results weren't always satisfying. He had seen an unfortunate share of guilty men and women walk away from trials with a nod from the judge and an apology from the county. When he was promoted to head of the graveyard shift, he made it clear that he would do whatever it took to get a murderer behind bars. He was lucky to have a team willing to make the same effort by working on holidays and clocking in for overtime with minimal complaint.

Their concentration was broken by a familiar voice walking down the hallway. Jacqui and David exchanged knowing looks before turning towards the doorway, waiting for Archie to appear.

"Dude, it was bumper to bumper," Archie was saying as he and Bobby entered the room, each taking a page from Jacqui's fashion book. Archie appeared to have lost his hairbrush while Bobby was actually _trying _to blind them with a dark green plaid shirt, seemingly having never seen the hot side of an iron. Archie must have grabbed the wrong pair of jeans, because the bottoms were frayed while Bobby's slacks were wrinkled in a "just grabbed from the dryer" sort of way. If they weren't carrying field kits or wearing police vests, one would think they were a drunkard pair of fashion rejects. "Two in the morning and it's still gridlock. I'll never understand Vegas."

"Nice of you three to join us. Jacqui and I were ready to start holding interviews for a couple new CSIs, considering our last few never seemed to show up," David said, rising from his stooped position and crossing his arms.

"Laugh now, boss man, but until you see traffic like that, you'll never understand," Archie stated, slowly observing his surroundings. "Some drunk hit a power poll. I don't care how depressed you are, alcohol and cars don't mix. That poll could have been a person. There'd be so many corpses you'd _have_ to call in Ronnie."

David sent him a suspicious look. "How do you know I didn't call Ronnie tonight?"

Bobby shrugged. "You always try not to if it's his night off. He's the family guy. Kids and a wife."

"We know you try and hide it, but somewhere inside that chest is a beating heart, small and shriveled as it may be," Archie added, laughing at David's look of indignation.

"For some reason, you all forget I'm your boss."

"We don't forget, just ignore," Archie pointed out. David rolled his eyes. "Anyway, what do we have? A rich broker who picked up the wrong Lady of the Evening?"

"Nope," Jacqui replied. "You aren't going to like it."

"I have a feeling I know where this is going," Bobby began, frowning as he glanced to where Jacqui stood photographing the body. "She looks like she was ten, maybe."

Archie closed his eyes while Bobby sighed. David knew the feeling all too well; murder was horrible, he wouldn't argue that point, but the kid cases were always the worst. "About ten years old," Archie surmised. "Wonderful. How'd it happen?"

"Snapped neck," Dave replied. "I'll get her to the coroner's when Jacqui's finished."

"So much for a night off," Archie softly muttered. "I'll take the kitchen."

"I've got the North side," Bobby offered.

"I've got East and the entrance way," David announced. "We'll give Greg the honor of sketching."

"Who, me? Why David, that's mighty kind of you," came another voice from the entryway. David rolled his eyes but didn't bother to turn around from where he stood. There was no mistaking the good humor in Greg's voice, no matter how dim the scene. He was like some sort of light (not that David would ever tell him so,) a torch of some kind that made getting through another ghastly night far easier.

"And _you,_ Greg Sanders," David said, pointing to the blonde, "I didn't expect you for at least another twenty minutes, considering it takes you a lifetime to transition from your nauseating dream world to reality. Did Aladdin offer you a ride on his magic carpet or what?"

"Well, I was cleaning out my fridge when you called," Greg answered, Bobby quirking an eyebrow at the admission. "I figured this was probably more important."

"I think HAZMAT would have to disagree," Bobby retorted. "I saw your fridge once. You had salmon in there that was a month old. It smelled terrible."

"Yeah, I haven't had the stomach for salmon since," Greg admitted as he stepped into the room. "Just the memory gets me green."

"I think that's your taste in music," Bobby muttered in response. Greg sent the other man a playfully annoyed look before turning to David.

"So Dave, what's up? I get to sketch? Don't you think I should be getting more experience by collecting evidence instead?"

"Greg, you've collected more evidence as a Level One than I ever did. I think you can handle a pen and paper."

"You just don't want to get stuck doing it," Greg lightly accused. Jacqui made a murmur of agreement from her place at the bedpost and David hated to admit that they were both right. It was his job to get Greg trained.

But David really, really disliked sketching the scene.

"Fine. You take the bathroom, but I _don't_ want you using the toilet. Got me?"

"Geez. Empty your bladder once and you're marked for life," Greg muttered in response, heading towards the restroom located in the corner. "What'd you want me to do, wet myself?"

"Preferably," David dryly replied. "Get to work before I change my mind."

Greg went without question, happy to do what he considered "real" CSI work. This, of course, meant David was stuck trying to sketch out the room's floor plan. With a groan, he reached for his tape measure and began on the West wall, working his way clockwise. He began measuring the wall, the bed, and the bedside tables, making sure to add the lamps. He continued the pattern, recording the height and width of the dresser and window, the color of the curtains, the dimensions of the television and the entertainment center it sat on. He cataloged everything. The last thing he was going to do was have the defense throw out the case because he got lazy with his sketching, loath as he was to do it.

Jacqui, as usual, read his mind.

"You know," she began, nodding to Dave that it was safe to remove the body before turning to David. "Wendy would be more than happy to do this. I don't understand why you didn't call her in either."

"That girl's on the fast track to burnout," Bobby replied, looking up from his task. "She and Sara are matched when it comes to who works the hardest."

"So what, Ronnie _and_ Wendy are getting some sleep? What do I look like, an insomniac? My body doesn't _willingly _stay awake, David."

"Wendy hasn't left the lab for almost three days, Jacq," David replied, his focus unwavering. "I thought she could use some sleep. She's a Level One. Besides, we only hired her a week ago."

"Don't get me wrong, I love Wendy," Jacqui continued, as though she hadn't heard him. "But it's been a light week. Why was she spending three days in the lab anyway?"

"A trainee has it the hardest," Archie replied. "She's just trying to show she can pull her weight. She'll figure out our system soon enough."

"System?" Bobby echoed. "What system?"

"Pile it someone else. That's how it's always been, my plaid friend."

"Uh-huh. I think you're the only one who's been following that system, Arch," Bobby retorted. "And my shirts aren't that bad."

Archie, David, and Jacqui exchanged disbelieving looks before glancing at Bobby simultaneously.

"Surely you jest," Jacqui said, slipping on a pair of orange glasses and flipping on her flashlight. "The plaid? It blinds dozens of innocent people every night. You should wear a warning."

"Everyone says that about me," Bobby retorted, giving her a purposely-sleazy smile. "Ever heard the expression 'a guy like you should wear a warning?'"

"I don't think you're who they had in mind when that phrase was coined, Bobby."

"Says who? Unless you were there, we'll never really know."

"And our war of wits begins," Jacqui began, grinning at Bobby before turning back towards the now corpse-less mattress. "You know, I wouldn't… damn it," she cursed, taking a quick detour from quippy retorts to dark sailor language. She grimaced as the eerie white blotches appeared on the sheets. "I've got some semen on the sheets, fellas. I'll get it to Catherine."

"You don't think…?" Archie began, frowning as he cast an uncertain look towards the bed. "He killed a ten year old prostitute?"

"Maybe the semen's from someone else," Bobby interjected. David knew there was no way it would be so simple, but he couldn't make himself shoot down the tinge of hope in Bobby's voice.

"Sorry Bobby," Jacqui replied, turning towards the Level Two CSI. "It's Sandstorm. One of the reasons they're the best is because they clean the sheets and comforters every day. If the overnighters ever get out of bed, of course."

"If Catherine's gonna like that semen, then she's going to love these hairs in the bathtub even more," Greg called, sticking his head out from the restroom's doorway. "This'll give her a couple of hours worth of work."

"At least we're getting those new techs tomorrow," Jacqui declared, pulling out some swabs from her kit as she spoke. "I'm not sure how much more Catherine can take. I know she's married to her job, but there are only so many hours in a night."

"Hey, who are we getting anyway?" Bobby asked. It shook David a bit; shook him that they could have such a casual conversation while processing the room where a young girl was killed a mere few hours before. Was that normal? Natural? Did their familiarity with the dead make them just as twisted as those they put behind bars?

"-right, David?"

David glanced up, realizing the other four had been talking while he had been zoning out. He glanced around, trying to deduce who had addressed him.

"Sorry Bobby, what'd you say?" he asked once he caught sight of the expectant expression Bobby was wearing.

"I said I heard that our new DNA tech is coming from Florida, right? Miami?"

Right. He was the boss and he knew these things. He should, anyway. Whether he actually had every fact of the lab cataloged in his head was up for debate.

"Miami," David confirmed. "Our new trace guy's coming from Dallas."

"Ah, Miami," Jacqui sighed. "Beautiful people, beautiful beaches."

"I'm sure that's what he thinks about Vegas, minus the beaches," David retorted. "Neither city will live up to your expectations."

"Murder's everywhere," Bobby agreed.

"Give a girl a break, would you? I can't live on cynicism alone."

"Are you sure? David has," Greg quipped. David rolled his eyes. He had _no_ authority over these people. Did Ecklie let his team joke about him? Probably not; then again, Ecklie's team didn't care for their boss very much. While David had a lack of authority, he at least had their trust and dedication.

"I've heard it's an unhealthy diet," David retorted, "But I wear a smaller size in jeans now, so who's to say?"

"So when do we get to meet these new lab rats?" Bobby asked. "Sara's collapsing under all that trace and Catherine's gonna ring my neck if she gets any more DNA swabs this week."

"This week was light, remember?" Archie asked. "Why would she throttle you?"

"Backlog," David and Greg chorused; Greg because he once knew the frustrations of being a tech and David because, as head of the shift, he was the one everyone complained to. He grimaced. A complaining Sara or Catherine was frightening enough in single doses, but when they got together… it was horrifying.

"Ryan Wolfe's flying in tomorrow, Nick Stokes should be coming in about two days," Jacqui informed.

"Should we… I don't know, clean up the lab or something? Make 'em feel welcome?" Bobby queried.

"I'll get on that right after we shut this case," David dryly retorted. Bobby sighed.

"It was only a suggestion," he muttered.

"I think what Bobby's trying to say is that they probably worked days back at home. They're going to be jetlagged, new to the area, friendless," Greg called, sticking his head out the door again. "He wants to lull them into a false sense of security until we can ensnare them into our weirdness."

"I know," David replied, sending Bobby an apologetic look. "Sorry. Evaluations are coming up, two new employees coming in-''

"Dave, relax. We know you, remember? I was just sayin' maybe you should explain why you plan on taking Ryan and Nick's blood when they get here."

"Gil's a strange man," David admitted. "Sometimes I find it in the fridge, sometimes on the wall. I think I've had a psychopath working in my lab and don't even know it."

"Well, whatever he does with that stuff is his business," Jacqui declared. "Unless he drinks it. Then that would be illegal."

"I don't think he goes that far," Archie replied. "I've seen dead pigs and things. He uses blood to time when insects hatch or something. Grosses me out."

"Sure it does, Geek," Jacqui retorted. "If it's not on Star Trek, it scares you."

"I watch things _other_ than Star Trek, Jacq."

"Yeah? Like what? And any other space show doesn't count."

"Anime," Archie replied, as though that was honestly going to help his cause. Under Jacqui's continued stare, Archie finally returned to work with too much concentration.

Jacqui gave a laugh and shared a triumphant expression with David. David rolled his eyes but smiled back. He was certain he'd go insane without these people, even if most of their conversations bordered on the absurd. He supposed he could allow Jacqui her moment of victory as he turned back to his sketch, focusing on the large window.

TBC.


	2. Close Your Eyes and Think of Somewhere

A/N: I love early Ryan, but I can't change the fact that he's growing up. Getting some muscles. Gettin' tough. So I'm going to try and write "now Ryan," even if I have to include some questionable jackets. Also, my promise of quick updates? Dashed. School's kicking my behind and now we have some new kittens to care for, so I'll be writing… but I can't promise methodic updates. Sorry! (Please forgive me! -flails-)

Recondite Whisper  
Part 1: Shut Your Eyes and Think of Somewhere

**rec·on·dite,** _adj_. **1.** Not easily understood; abstruse.  
**2.** Concerned with or treating something abstruse or obscure.  
**3.** Concealed; hidden.

"Tonight's the night, boys!" Jacqui happily announced as she all but bounced into the break room, a giant grin lighting up her face. "Ryan's coming in and Catherine might actually be able to breathe beneath the workload. This, of course, means she won't be shooting me looks of utter hatred every time I bring her a sample. Milky Ways are on the house!"

"Free candy bars? David, you should hire techs more often," Archie said, genuinely surprised as he turned towards his boss. "Rare are the nights Jacqui shares the Milky Ways."

"That's because they're sacred," she promptly replied, glaring from her spot by the vending machine. "I only share in times of great joy and triumph. Mere mortals like you don't really deserve them, but I'm feeling generous."

"I didn't say I was complaining. And forgive me for asking, but are you wearing make up?"

"You like it?" came her hopeful response. "I bought new mascara _and_ lip gloss. Did you know Cover Girl wants seven bucks for some basic mascara? I couldn't believe it."

"I was outraged," Bobby solemnly agreed. Archie snorted with laughter as Jacqui hurled a Milky Way towards Bobby's head. It bounced off his messy hair and onto the table he was leaning against. He sent her a thankful smile before peeling the wrapper open and taking a languorous bite.

David watched the exchange with well-hidden amusement before diving back into several open files that were splayed out before him. He would have used the desk in his office if only it weren't covered with so many _other_ work-related documents. As someone who appreciated cleanliness, his own desk made his skin crawl. Being head of shift had its perks, sure, but he wouldn't mind a few nights in Greg or Wendy's shoes. They were Level Ones, which meant they didn't have an entire shift to keep an eye on, and they didn't have to butt heads with Ecklie or the Sheriff either.

He was startled when a small package was dropped in front of him with a crinkly plop. He immediately recognized it as a Milky Way and, as sad as it was, began to practically drool. Why didn't he ever have the time for a real meal? His fellow CSIs would occasionally stop by Frank's Diner down the street, but he was usually too busy to join them. As his right hand woman, Jacqui would try to help with the endless paperwork, but it was really a one-person job. After all, most of the lab's information was cataloged in David's head, and until she developed ESP, there was no way she could assist.

"Thanks Jacq," he said, ripping it open. "You bought me breakfast. How sweet."

"One day I'm going to purposely infect you with germs," she replied around her own caramel and chocolate bite. "That way you'll _have_ to call in sick and then I could fix you something more than a candy bar."

"I eat," he defended. Ronnie's eyebrows hit his hairline at the blatant lie.

"Since when?" he asked, not believing a word of it. "I doubt you even remember how to use a fork anymore."

"He's on the Coffee and Sarcasm diet," came Archie's playful retort. "It's all the rage these days."

"Is that the secret to your skinniness?" Jacqui inquired. "I'll have to try it out for myself."

"Jacqui, you don't need a diet," Bobby argued, shooting his supervisor an apologetic smile. "And besides, he isn't skinny. He's… lithe."

"Right, just like Mrs. Claus is _voluptuous_. It's a question of connotation and you, my darling David, are starting to put beanpoles to shame."

"Jacq, this candy bar has more carbs than I'd care to think about," David said around a mouthful. "You can't say I'm a beanpole when I'm stuffing myself with junk food."

"You have a great metabolism."

"I'll lose it when I get over the hill," David reminded. "Until then, I'm fine."

"A_hem_."

The group looked towards the doorway to see a none-too-pleased Wendy Simms standing with her arms crossed over her chest. That was never good. She, like Greg, had a sparkling personality, but was known to try too hard and work too much in an attempt to prove herself. David knew exactly what was coming and inwardly winced. He could never seem to avoid a woman's rant. Jacqui, Wendy, Sara, or Catherine always found him at the wrong time and wrong place, usually in a location without an escape route.

"So there I was," she began, striding towards them (graciously accepting the offered candy bar from Jacqui as she made her way towards David's table), "Just standing at my locker, getting ready for shift when Greg begins going on about last night's scene. At first I think, 'Is he mad? I was in _bed_ last night and I _know_ David would have called me in if there was a new scene.' And then I think, 'Wait, no he wouldn't.' Why? I'm not sure. I was hoping you would explain it to me."

"Wendy, I only needed a couple of guys. I figured you could use the sleep."

"Sleep? I'm trying to become a respected CSI and you decline to call? That's mean, boss man. That's just plain mean."

"Tell that to Jacqui. Do you know how many times she's been called out in the middle of her night off?" David asked. "We're lucky she gets out of bed at all, much less brushes her teeth or bothers to wear a bra."

Jacqui, for good measure, stopped chewing and shot David an unappreciative glare. "That," she muttered, "Is that last time I ever buy food for you. You can starve for all I care."

Wendy, like Greg, was not to be deterred. "Last time you had me dumpster diving! I smelled like cat litter, rotten cow and decomp for three days. There's no amount of citrus fruit that's going to get rid of the odor," she continued, using wild hand gestures for emphasis. "I can collect evidence. I can!"

"I know you can, Wendy."

"Just because I'm the youngest doesn't mean you can only use me to do the dirty work."

"I'm aware of that."

There was a pause in the conversation as Wendy opened the candy bar wrapper. "Was it bad?" she finally asked. No one had to question what she was referring to; she meant the scene from the night before, the one with the hair and semen and broken little girl.

The resulting silence was the only thing she needed to hear.

…

Ryan Wolfe took a deep, calming breath as he stared up at the Las Vegas crime lab. The building wasn't architecturally intimidating or anything, but what lay beyond the front door -the uncertainty- scared him out of his mind. He ground his teeth. Between the exhausting plane ride, a car stuffed with suitcases, and getting lost three times before _finally_ locating the lab, he felt as though his nerves were shot. He bit his lip and straightened his coat, resisting the urge to run his hand through his hair again. Everyone had first day jitters, but he refused to be terrified. He wasn't going to let a bad night and a few strangers get the best of him.

Of course, he needed to actually _go inside_ to meet said strangers.

He rolled his eyes at himself and, after smoothing out some nonexistent wrinkles, pulled the glass door open.

His hesitation returned immediately.

He was met with an energized hum that Miami had somehow lacked. The lobby was buzzing with activity while ringing phones littered the background with noise. Bodies hustled and bustled around while uniforms shot him a sidelong glance, giving him a once over to make sure he wasn't wearing a ski mask and hauling in a semi-automatic. There was the faint scent of coffee and chemicals while voices intermingled, prancing through his ears as he tried to grasp his surroundings.

He allowed the door to close behind him before approaching the front desk, sidestepping several lawyers who didn't even waste their time with a dirty look.

"Excuse me?" he began as a small, curly haired woman glanced up from her place at the desk. Dark rimmed glasses balanced on a dainty nose as she held up a slim forefinger, indicating for him to wait a moment. There was a phone attached to her ear and it appeared as though she was trying to juggle several calls at once. Ryan struggled to hide his trepidation; it was frantic here, and he wasn't sure how well he could work in such a rushed environment.

He took this moment to observe his new work place. The floor was white tile and most of the walls were glass; the constant flow of people and motion was dizzying. It was clean, he'd give them that. Even the transparent and unforgiving walls showed few fingerprints. The lab coats were crisp and dark blue while lights from the city gave the entire lab an odd glow. He knew he'd have to adjust to the night shift if he ever hoped to succeed; hot Miami days were going to be replaced by humid (and sometimes cold, he heard) Las Vegas nights. Both cities were flashy, but Las Vegas at dusk had a strikingly different atmosphere than a Miami morning.

He had been so nervous coming here. Two long months were what it took for him to decide to make the jump. Of course, if his uncle hadn't insisted on moving, Ryan probably wouldn't have ever left Florida. He knew his uncle, the last of his family, could barely take care of himself. His mind didn't work like everyone else's; it twisted and turned, a confusing roller coaster that sometimes spiraled and sometimes froze. A few more strokes and he'd be gone. Ryan swallowed at the thought.

"How may I help you?"

Ryan was brought back to the beehive-like atmosphere and turned to face the curly haired woman behind the desk. He gave her a nod. Here went nothing.

"My name's Ryan Wolfe," he said, keeping his voice calm and even. "It's my first night here and I was-''

"_You're_ Ryan Wolfe?" she interrupted, a smile growing on her pleasant face. "Catherine's going to be so excited to hear this! Give me one second."

The woman –Judy, as her nametag read- quickly picked up the phone, dialed with experienced fingers, and placed the receiver against her ear. She gave Ryan another smile before someone answered on the other end of the line.

"Catherine!" Judy began, perking up at the responding voice. "Your cavalry's arrived! He's at the front desk."

Although Ryan could only hear half of the conversation, the mysterious Catherine was obviously thrilled to hear this news. Judy laughed and then indicated for Ryan to turn around.

Ryan, slightly baffled, turned just in time to see a strawberry-blonde and a tall African American stride through the halls, the glass walls giving Ryan a clear view. The woman still had her cell affixed to her ear as she bypassed several of her colleges, all of whom ignored her determined pace. Ryan was fairly certain such hasty behavior was of the norm when it came to the graveyard shift.

"Ryan Wolfe? It's a pleasure to meet you," Catherine said, stepping up to him and holding out her right hand while shutting the phone with her left. Ryan hurriedly shook it, barely able to complete the gesture before her male companion stuck out his own hand as well. Ryan, ignoring his mind's endless mantra of _germs! germs!_, quickly pressed his palm against the stranger's, clasping his fingers and gripping with a masculine force.

"Likewise," Ryan replied, nodding to his two new co-workers. "It's great to finally be here."

"Let's forgo the pleasantries and get you in a lab," Catherine suggested, giving Judy a small wave in silent thanks. She then indicated for Ryan to follow her.

"My name's Catherine Willows," the woman began as they made their way through a busy corridor. She walked on Ryan's left while the other man walked on his right. Ryan felt sandwiched. "Call me Catherine, not Cat. Technically, I'm your superior, but none of that matters if you know what the hell you're doing." Ryan felt himself relax slightly. She was quick and to the point, and he could definitely handle that after working with Frank for so long.

"I'm Warrick Brown," the man introduced; Ryan ignored the compulsive feeling to shake hands again.

"He's got a gambling problem-''

"_Had_ a gambling problem-''

"So don't tempt him."

"Thanks for that flattering introduction, Cath."

"Just doing you a favor," she replied, fighting a small smile that threatened to break out. "Over to the left is DNA, where you and I'll be working. To the right is A/V."

"That's my lab," Warrick cut in. "Surveillance, home movies, web sites, digital cameras. Past A/V is trace."

"Sara Sidle runs it, so don't be offended if she doesn't walk over with a friendly hug."

"She's married to her job."

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Ah. See this? It's our basis for survival," Warrick noted, grabbing Ryan's shoulder and steering him towards what appeared to be the break room. There were several tables and chairs, one of which was being occupied by an older gentleman in the corner. He had graying temples and wore glasses, but made no acknowledgement of Catherine or Warrick's presence when they entered. He seemed rather preoccupied with something else, and Ryan was going to take a closer look when Catherine's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You seem like a nice enough guy," she observed as he returned his attention to where she stood by the counter. "So I'll let you in on a little secret: the Folgers is just there as a ploy. If you want some real coffee, all you have to do is check behind the refrigerator. It's Greg's, but he loves us enough to let us steal it."

"Who's- okay, sure-'' Ryan tried to reply. He was confident, certainly, but Warrick and Catherine were a never-ending stream of words, and he didn't have the chance to really say anything. He only barely noticed the innocent can of Folgers sitting next to a worn coffee maker before his concentration was diverted once more.

"Now the vending machine is a completely different story," Catherine continued, Warrick nodding with her. "You can't just punch in the buttons. You have to grab it at the top-'' To illustrate this point, Warrick calmly clutched the top of the machine. "-tilt it back-'' Warrick, following Catherine's instruction, pushed the hulking machine with one arm. "-and _then_ punch in the numbers."

"Uh, okay," he agreed. The vending machines would probably prove to be vital down the line, but shouldn't he be getting a locker or a lab or something?

"See this fridge?" Warrick asked, pointing towards a blameless white refrigerator that stood against the wall. Catherine made a knowing 'hm' of agreement as she and Ryan walked towards it. "Never eat anything out of it unless you know it's yours. And just ignore the blood."

Ryan felt his heart nearly stop. They couldn't be serious. How many health hazards were involved with storing bodily fluids in a non-designated space, especially when consumable foods stayed in there with it? The Floridian's fingers twitched. This had to be some sort of hazing. No one kept actual blood in there. Surely. "Blood? Isn't that-?"

"Gil, how many times have I _told_ you to put those things in a cage?"

Ryan stopped his questioning as the irritated query cut through the air. Who had spoken? Who was Gil? And why were cages included? He, Warrick, and Catherine turned to see what had prompted such frustration and Ryan felt a little disheartened when Catherine simply gave another 'hm' while Warrick chuckled beside her. It was as though they knew exactly what was about to happen.

A tall man with dark hair and blue eyes strode from across the hallway and into the opposite break room door, entering from the back. He was glaring at the older man who Ryan had first noticed when Catherine had begun her tour of the lounge. Despite the annoyed question that had been thrown his way, the man was still calmly occupying a table, not even bothering to look up or acknowledge his interrogator. Of course, Ryan wasn't even sure why he should. After all, the gentleman didn't _seem_ to be doing anything particularly obnoxious, but- oh. _Oh._

"Is that a tarantula?" Ryan asked, taking a step back despite the fact they were at least fifteen yards away.

"You bet. It's probably Tweedle-Dee," Catherine muttered as she rolled her eyes while the original speaker advanced towards Gil, a frown firmly in place.

"Care to elaborate?" Ryan asked, thankful that they were on the other side of the room. Maybe Gil and his visitor wouldn't notice their presence.

"Gil's our anthropologist," Warrick murmured in reply, equally as interested to see how the encounter was going to unfold. "He collects pickled pigs and all, but his interest in entomology gives David a heart attack. It wouldn't be so bad if Gil would just keep 'em in the box."

"David?"

"Your boss."

"And that's him?" Ryan asked, referring to the tall, blue-eyed man who had stormed in only moments ago.

"Yup. I swear he's two seconds away from burnout."

"Right. And Tweedle-Dee?"

"The tarantula. Or maybe it's Tweedle-Dum. Gil has two and they're siblings."

"That's… not natural."

"This is Gil we're talking about," Catherine replied as David began citing a long list of reasons why tarantulas shouldn't be in the general public area. Ryan observed the man with intent; Warrick's warning of burnout seemed to have a good basis. David appeared frazzled as well as exasperated. It was as though he had given this speech numerous times before and was well aware that Gil wouldn't listen. True to Ryan's observation, Gil was barely paying attention as he continued to feed either Tweedle-Dee or Tweedle-Dum. As a matter of fact, the entomologist looked as if he were in his own little world.

"Are you even listening?" David asked again, and Gil glanced up and nodded.

"'He who listens gathers the knowledge of life.'"

"Let me guess. Hamlet?"

"Fortune cookie."

"Of course. If I see one of those things out again, I'm going to get a can of Raid and make good use of it."

"He's not poisonous."

"Tell that to our lawsuit department. Cage, Gil. Acquaint yourself with one or prepare for a tarantula-sized coffin."

Gil, although reluctant, nodded before gathering up his eight-legged friend, heading through the door, and disappearing down the hall moments later. David watched him go, shaking his head and muttering something beneath his breath. Ryan had to smile at that; he was sure the words David was using were quite colorful. However, his smile quickly vanished when David turned his attention towards the trio in the corner.

"Catherine," David politely nodded, brushing past her and towards the coffee maker. Ryan had a feeling that it was one of the most used appliances within the entire lab. "I assume the terrified man next to you is Ryan Wolfe?"

"You remembered?" Catherine asked, a hint of surprise lacing her question. "Is the world ending?"

"Ha ha," David dryly retorted as he stuck his hand behind the refrigerator and extracted a gold bag of coffee. "Jacqui reminded me."

"What would you do without that woman? She's like a human Blackberry," Warrick mused. David shot him a half smile.

"Probably go insane, but don't let her know I said that. By the way, make sure to get his blood before morning," David ordered, indicating Ryan with a lazy point of his index finger. "Gil's going to want some, and I'd rather keep him happy than have him hunt this guy down himself."

"Consider it done, boss man," Warrick replied. Ryan, on the other hand, wasn't as calm as the others seemed to be. Was blood letting a routine practice around the lab? Was that healthy? Wasn't some sort of government department supposed to check the place out every once in a while? They certainly wouldn't approve of blood being stored with food or employees giving away blood of their own.

Ryan wanted to voice this concern but wasn't sure how. He settled on watching as David expertly measured out some coffee and then added water before placing the pot beneath the spout and flipping the switch on.

The younger man sighed. Maybe this place wasn't meant for him either. Surely, though, he could fit in? Catherine and Warrick seemed to like him well enough, and despite the questionable sanitary practices, the lab was a nice place. His boss wasn't Horatio, but he wasn't bad. He appeared to genuinely care for his team, his employees, and the cases he worked. No one adjusted to something in one night, and Ryan knew all he needed was a little time to get it together and start making friends. Besides, his uncle Ron seemed to love Las Vegas and was settling in nicely. Who was Ryan to take that joy from him?

He heartened at the thought of his uncle. The man was… eccentric, that was for sure. He'd done everything, been everywhere, and his idea of a peaceful retirement was smack dab in one of the most bustling cities in America. Ryan had tried convincing him of some small place in Georgia or Rhode Island, but Ron had been bent on coming to Sin City. Why, Ryan would never know, but he _did_ know his uncle needed more help than he thought. Ryan was just glad Ron had accepted his offer to move with him.

"You guys here for coffee?" David asked, leaning against the counter with his hip while the coffee maker hissed and brewed something delicious smelling.

"Nah, we're just showing the newbie around," Warrick easily responded. "Lemme guess… you want us to start working?"

"It's a thought. And hey, make sure this guy's thoroughly traumatized by the time he clocks out," David deadpanned, referring to Ryan with a nod of his head. "I don't consider it a good night unless someone cries."

"Will do."

"Solve me some cases while you're at it."

"Don't we always?"

…

Four hours later, Ryan was finally beginning to relax. Catherine had showed him his new lab and then introduced the rest of the CSIs as well as Sara, Al Robbins, David Philips, and Jim Brass. Ryan felt laughter bubble inside of him when he first saw Jim; he and Frank Tripp's personalities were almost exactly the same. They both possessed a dry sense of humor, a blunt vocabulary, and a "newbies no need apply" attitude. The only person left to meet was some guy named Greg Sanders. After that, Ryan felt sure that he'd have most of the LVCL's nightshift workforce down pat.

In his lab, Ryan worked the evidence methodically. That was one thing he enjoyed about being a technician rather than an investigator: procedure. It was the exact same thing over and over, almost guaranteed to give you the right answer. Ryan's OCD demanded an orderly house and a systematic job, so to have a lab all to himself, equipment that was nearly brand new, and the space to organize his tools was a dream come true. He might not have felt totally comfortable in the craziness outside the glass walls, but he knew he could adjust if this was what an average night consisted of.

He was about to run a few swab heads when a bout of laughter forced his concentration elsewhere. He glanced up just in time to see two men have a conversation right outside the lab. The first was Archie Johnson, a likeable CSI 2 with dark, ruffled hair and almond shaped eyes. The other was…

Wow.

Ryan blinked. The other man had blonde streaked hair, deep chocolate eyes, and a smile that would knock your socks off. His clothes were a little baggy and his ears stuck out, but he was still oddly incredible; his body motions were so animated as he illustrated his chat with unconscious hand gestures. He had a long, straight nose and his face was peppered with a few perfectly placed moles. For once, Ryan forgot his work and merely watched the two men interact. The blonde wasn't wearing a lab coat, which meant he was probably a lower-level CSI, considering how young he looked. In fact, he was about Ryan's age. They were both holding onto manila folders, and Ryan had the strange suspicion they were probably supposed to be doing something more important, but he couldn't blame them for wanting to try and break the gruesome tedium with a joke or two.

Ryan's gloved hands still held one swab and a pair of specialty scissors, but they hadn't moved since he caught sight of the stranger. Then again, was he expected to actually work now? The man outside was so sparkling and beautiful; how was Ryan supposed to concentrate? He felt surprised and a little alarmed. He hadn't been attracted to anyone since… well, college. Maybe. It was so long ago that he couldn't even remember.

"His name's Greg."

The voice came from nowhere; Ryan gave a slight jump and spun around, a bit flustered to be caught staring. "I'm sorry?" he asked, keeping his voice even while trying to hide his embarrassment. Catherine gave a knowing smile as she leaned against the lab doorframe.

"The guy you're laser beaming with your eyes? His name's Greg Sanders, CSI Level one."

"I wasn't laser beaming," Ryan muttered in response, turning back towards his work, not daring to look up and see whether Greg had already left his line of vision. Well, at least he knew everyone on nightshift now.

"Ryan?"

"Yes, Catherine?" he ground out. He had no desire to discus his sexuality with an almost complete stranger, especially considering it was his first night working there. He needed _friends_, damnit, not people who pushed him around. He remembered Miami and how accepting Calleigh and, eventually, Eric had been about who Ryan was most attracted to, although he never acted on it. He couldn't have these people know his preference if they were going to be hateful or taunting about it.

"We accept everyone here. Frankly, we don't give a flip who you date," she informed, sauntering up to his worktable.

"I don't date."

"Not at all?"

"Catherine, you seem like a nice person," he finally said, looking towards the older woman and frowning. "But my personal life really isn't anyone's business except mine. Leave it alone."

Catherine's eyebrows rose and she raised her hands in a non-confrontational manner, taking a few steps back to give Ryan some space. "I understand completely. But can I share a secret with you?" Ryan shot her an expectant look, indicating that he was listening. She grinned and leaned in with a conspiracy-like manner.

"I know I'm kind of… challenging at the beginning. I just wanted to make sure you were ready for this job."

"And?"

She grinned again and nodded. "So far, you've done great. We lab rats are a tight knit group and you're going to fit in just fine."

"That wasn't my top concern."

"Honey, that's _everyone's_ top concern. Besides, you and me? We're going to be friends. I can tell."

Ryan shot her a relieved smile. "I hope so," he admitted. "I'm sorry if I… I know what it's like to be gay and work law enforcement. I was in patrol before this, and it isn't pleasant."

"This'll just stay between us," she assured him, draping her right arm over his shoulders in a comforting manner. He could already tell she was a mother figure and he honestly didn't mind. If anything, he needed someone to lean on, considering his uncle leaned on _him_. "Now c'mon, you've been slaving away for hours. It's time for some coffee."

Ryan nodded in agreement as he finished up the original test and followed a friendly Catherine out the door, Greg's laughter still ringing in his ears.

TBC!


End file.
